The Athame
by BellatrixLestrangey
Summary: Goretober Day 28: Ritual. Isabella sacrifices her unborn child so that she can escape her marriage and rise to power.


The forest is thick and with an impenetrable darkness. It is forebodingly still, yet the crickets and toads dare to chirp and croak, and the owls continue to screech. From somewhere that Isabella believes is concerningly close, a series of coyote yips and howls sound. It as as if they don't know what is about to happen.

She has tried a great many things to free herself from Thornton's grasp. A great many things that have all failed in turn and left her more broken and beaten than before. She can take no more.

She refuses to take anymore.

The light refuses to help her so she takes to the dark.

The path is lonely and desolate, she can see several figures gathered around a crackling fire. A fire that only grows as the night wears on. There is a fear knotting in her heart and brewing as she draws closer to the figures.

Uniformly, they turn to stare at her and she realizes that they are wearing cloaks and masks. The leader has the head of a wolf, there is a stag and a fox on the wolf's right and left respectively. Further back are a coyote, a hare, and a hawk. Each figure wears a necklace of bones, likely that of the animals they wear as masks.

Their unrelenting gazes unsettle her even deeper so she looks skyward; it is accented with too many clouds for it to be anything more than a dismal void.

They beckon Isabella into the center of their small circle. She hesitates before taking their invitation. They seem to close in on her and she becomes aware of the rot that they reek of and of the blood tinging the fur of their masks. She shudders.

"Take the cloak off." The wolf speaks, his voice is thick, deep, and gruff.

Isabella swallows, it reminds her all too much of the man that she is trying to escape. But she does as she is told. Her cloak slides from her shoulders.

"The dress."

She swallows harder and with unsteady fingers, she reaches behind her and tugs at the string holding her dress in place. It falls in an elegant green pile at her feet. The night air is bitter and uninviting against her naked flesh.

The wolf looks her up and down, "I see you have come prepared with a sacrifice."

She isn't sure exactly what he is referring to but it chills her thoroughly.

"Stand over there." The stag points. Her voice is deceivingly lullabye-like. "On the alter."

Isabella makes her way up the stone platform, making note of the tortured looking faces carved into the cracked, moss-speckled stone.

"Sit." Says the fox. And Isabella drops, cross legged onto the stone.

"Power and freedom come with a price." The wolf speaks. "Are you willing to pay it?"

Isabella nods, "I will be the sheriff of Nottingham and my husband will be well out of the way." She pauses. "Name your price."

"It is not _my _price, dear." He tilts her chin up with the flat side of his blade. "The price," he lowers the blade to the swell of her belly. "Is that."

For a drawn out span of time, Isabella stares at the tip poised at her belly. Instinct alone has her hand protective covering the bump. But that is as far as instincts go. "I'll pay it." It is Thornton's spawn anyhow. And it is the product of a deed nearly as dark as the one she is doing. Her hand falls from the bump and presses flat against the cool stone.

"Then it is done." The wolf says, beckoning the fox forward.

The fox holds out an obsidian chalice, inlaid with silver and flecks for ruby. "Drink." Her voice is rougher than that of the first woman.

Isabella brings the chalice to her lips. It is thick and warm and tastes of copper, it doesn't take much imagination to know what it is. Though her mind wanders aimlessly trying to figure out from where it came. She hopes that it is only from an animal, but somehow she has her doubts.

There is something else within it, something with a more spicy tang.

Her stomach heaves, and she feels rather ill. Accompanying it is a horrific burning in her middle, she falls back against the alter with her spine arched in pain. The figures surround her once more and begin a hellish sounding chant.

She is beginning to have regrets.

The coyote and the hare come forward and hold her in place. The wolf continues the chant as the others fall silent and the wolf stands before Isabella. She stares up at him, shaking all over. Her breathing is anything but controlled and her control lapses further when he holds up the atheme.

It glints in the moonlight and she mouths a silent, 'please, no.' She has changed her mind entirely.

But it is entirely too late. The athame slides across her chest and she cries out. The hawk muffles her scream. Her blood is warm as it runs down her chest. She is certain that she is dying.

The stag brings the chalice to her lips once more, this time the liquid is teal in color with a swirl of black. It smells potently of resin. The stag tips it back and it burns Isabella's throat as it goes down.

She wishes nothing more than to scream once more. The thing emerges, clawed hand first, it is viscus and vile. At first she thinks that it is a mist or a shadow. But it is more liquid than fog, its skin sheds a black ooze. It leers at her and lets out an ungodly screech.

Her vision goes black as the thing darts into the forest.

Through the ringing in her ears, she hears the wolf.

"Enjoy your power, Isabella Of Gisborn."

**.oOo.**

Isabella squints against the sunlight pouring in through the fluttering curtains. It is a fine spring day. The scents wafting through the open window are kind to her nose; freshly baked bread, lilac, strawberry, and wildflower. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

She feels somehow refreshed.

Optimistic and unburdened.

She stretches her arms, there is something she has forgotten. Something important. Something that rests on the edge of her mind like a sinister dream.

She wracks her brain trying to bring it to the surface.

A knock on the door interrupts the process. She winces as she gets to her feet, she feels rather sore. She opens the door.

"Lady Isabella." The serving boy greets. "I bring good news and bad."

Isabella nods for him to continue.

"Your husband is dead, they say that it looks like some kind of animal attack…"

"He was on a hunting trip, yes." Isabella tries to keep a smile from displaying itself. "And the good news?"

"Prince John would like to speak with you, lady."

She allows the smile to come forward. "Excellent, I shall get dressed. First in finery and then in mourning." Not that she will actually mourn at all. "Leave me to it."

The boy nods and ducks back into the hallway.

With the door shut she closes her eyes and breathes in the springtime perfumes. Indeed it is such a lovely day. She takes a moment to let the sun's rays fall upon her face. It is a kind and warm sensation. She slips into her most elegant silks and sprays on a generous amount of floral perfume. She feels luxurious.

But, what's this? Her fingers graze a raised marking on her chest. She pulls her shirt down some to reveal it in full. A long but thin, curved scar that cuts down her breast. She can't remember where it has come from. Had Thornton done this to her before his demise? She moves her dress back in place and finishes knotting it.

She doesn't have time to dwell.


End file.
